


Best Left Unsaid (Starving Artist Overdub)

by Gildedmuse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: F/M, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Remix, The Filmmaker Cannot See, The Songwriter Cannot Hear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 14:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18701368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: The boys let a lot of things go unsaid between them.





	Best Left Unsaid (Starving Artist Overdub)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Parameters](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/478804) by flyakate. 



> [ A Remix originally written in 2006]

**Best Left Unsaid (Starving Artist Overdub)**

  
The boys are broke again.  
  
Mark looks around at the run-down loft. There is a pile of scripts that no one will back. There is a notebook filled with half finished lyrics no one wants to hear. There is the stereo that hasn't worked in two years that they keep around God knows why. There is the lamp that they couldn't plug in even if they had the bulb. There is the couch that was here before they moved in and has seen how many things, Mark doesn't know. Here is their life, stuck in this cramp little loft with no heat and no power and no way out.  
  
Sometimes it's almost enough to make you want to scream. Sometimes it's almost enough to make you want to go out and bus a few tables, tend bar, learn a skill that sells. Something to pay a few bills here and there, maybe buy them some food. It's almost, but it's never quite enough to push them over the edge.  
  
Looking around the loft, Mark wonders how they'll deal with it this time. No money. No food. No heat. No hope. He wonders all that, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he looks up from the typewriter with missing keys, searching the loft until he feels safe to let his eyes fall on Roger. Instead of bringing up the fact that they're poor and staving, what he says is, "I'm almost done with this script."  
  
Roger strums away at his guitar, his new song that has been new for a month and not yet finished. He adjusts the strings and changes a few chords, but nothing ever satisfies him. Looking up at the broken windows, the New York sky is as dark as it's going to get. "I think I'll turn in."  
  
Mark says, "Let me read it to you" and Roger stays on the table, tuning his guitar. He stays up, and Mark feels obligated to read at least some of his partially completed work that isn't that much different that his last. While their bills go unpaid and their loft falls apart, Mark reads aloud his commentary on the failing government (in cinematic form) and Roger plays bits from his latest piece about the desperation of youth (with a grunge punk sound) and neither boy mentions how they're failing and desperate and not doing anything about it. Easier to say these things to a large, crowded room of strangers hidden behind cameras and microphones. They tell themselves (silently, of course) that these things will get fixed. When they're famous and don't have to avoid money issues, things will fix themselves.  
  
After Roger run out of chords to play, he starts going through old songs he regrets, wrung with trite love messages and over used progressions. Mark gathers together rejected scripts he doesn't even like anymore, with their cliché and outdated messages, keeps reading them with long pauses in the middle, so he can just take in the beauty of Roger's music. They stay up all night, only passing out after the sun comes out and streaks through the windows and begin to warm the boys' skin. Mark falls asleep to a slow waltz on Roger's guitar, Roger to his friend's soft and peaceful breathing.

  
  
*

  
  
It's freezing, and they're starving.  
  
Roger sits on his table with his guitar in his lap. Mark is standing over the stove, waiting for the soup to boil. The one can of soup left in this place. The can of soup so old they had to sweep off at least two inches of dust after digging it out from the back of the otherwise empty cabinets.  
  
No food and no money. Roger's stomach has been grumbling for days. He's getting thinner by the minute. Skin stretching out over his skeleton, turning ashen and cold no matter how many blankets he curls up under. His hair is falling out in the shower, his fingernails growing odd colors. He stares in the mirror every day and thinks, "Like April."  
  
How Roger associates death is by the only corpses he's ever seen. Pale, slit open, cold and wet to the touch. He looks at the dark circles under his eyes, the way his face looks sunken in and hollowed out, almost like something has been ripped out of him, and he thinks, "Like April."  
  
Mark doesn't mention the way Roger's been loosing weight. He just goes about finding their last can of soup.  
  
"Careful," he warns when he picks up the can and sits beside Roger on the table. They start out knee to knee with the can in front of them, spoons clanging together as they try and find a balance between full out fighting and getting their share. Both boys radiate towards the heat, the only source they've had for a while. The only sound is their spoons banging together, their saliva pushing processed vegetables and little chunks of still cool beef down their throats. The rest, the way they end up holding the can between them, leg against leg and arm against arm and swallowing each other's breath back down they're so close, all of that happens without a word.

  
  
*

  
  
Somewhere between the being all the being broke and hungry and cold, there was four days of completely silence.  
  
Four very specific days, really. Four days in which there was a hundred things to say. Not just the usual things - the money, the food, the art, the failing, the desperation, the relationships, the drugs, the detachment, the stealing, the lying, the partying, the cheating, the frustration - but more than that.  
  
For four days not one word passes between them, because one word could turn into two and three and a floodgate. The body on the bathroom floor is still fresh enough that neither boy has it in them to swim against the raging currants that would sweep them away once the silence is finally broken. Roger goes to his room after they clean away the body, after the note is pressed into his hands and ripped to shreds. After he shakes her, cursing at April for being such a fucking bitch and leaving him like this and how could she do this to him, after he's done with that he goes into his room and shuts himself off. Mark takes the safe approach. His camera. Either way, neither boy is talking.   
  
Four days of nothing, then Mark walks in to find this.  
  
Roger is on the floor with the phone clenched so tight in his hands Mark can hear the cheap plastic beginning to crack in his fist. Silent tears are running down his face, burning hot into skin that had all but iced over. Mark is right there, kneeling beside him.  
  
On the phone, Mrs. Davis says, "Roger? Roger are you there?"  
  
On the fifth day, Mark gives Roger his hand and Roger takes it, as tight as he's holding the phone. Twisting Mark's skin and veins and bones, but he doesn't say a thing. He sits down by Roger, letting him dig into Mark's palm with his nails and anger and inability. He understands, so he doesn't bother with questions or pointless words of encouragement Roger wouldn't want to hear anyway.  
  
Mrs. Davis's is begging her son to speak with her, unaware of the two boys sitting so close together that Mark can feel the heat from Roger's tears as the run down his face, burning trails through his cheeks as he catches a loud sob before it can escape his throat.  
  
The phone gets placed back in its cradle and Roger collapses against Mark. He lets go of his hand only so he can wrap his arms around Mark, holding him still and there and real. Mark lets all this happen without a word, hugging the trembling boy against him as Roger finally breaks down.  
  
The sobs he can no longer choke back echo through the loft. Mark can feel his shirt already soaked with sweat and tears as Roger empties himself. "I can't do it."  
  
Mark runs a hand through his hair, down his neck, over his back. Petting, soft and gentle, and proving that Roger doesn't need to strangle him to keep him there. He isn't about to abandon him. He's not about to jump up and leave, take a razor and leave. All those things Roger is so afraid of, things he can't even say out loud, Mark isn't about to pull any of that on his best friend. He can't say that, though, so instead he runs his hand through Roger's hair, rubbing the back of his neck, down his back.  
  
Muffled against Mark's collar, Roger says, "I can't tell them." Mark's hand follows its set course again and again. He's there. He'll always be there. Roger's lips move against his shoulder, wet like a kiss only it's not saliva covering Mark's skin. It's tears. "She can't be... I can't..."  
  
Then Roger collapses, unable to mutter anything else as he shakes and trembles and drowns, and without a word Mark is there to save him.

  
  
*

  
  
There is really not a way to talk about how Mark feels when he gets his heart broken.  
  
Maybe it wasn't love. Roger tunes his guitar, plays through one of his oldest songs. It's about a girl who cheats and lies and sleeps around, and the boy finally getting smart and leaving her. There is nothing unique or different about it, and Roger hates it in every possible way but that's what he plays. Mark sits at his typewriter, hitting the keys so hard that almost all his letters are doubles, his fingertips turning red with each angry new punch.  
  
The words aren't there, but each boy can feel the tension in the air. It says, "Maybe it wasn't love."  
  
Yeah. Mark bangs at the keys, vision blurred with frustration and self-hate and simmering rage. All those things that happen before the big break down. Yeah, maybe it wasn't, but it sure hurts like hell.   
  
Roger plays a song he'd written for a girlfriend a long time ago. Stupid. Childish. Overdramatic and loud and Roger's tastes has matured a hundred times since then. The loft is silent enough that they can hear the hanging words, "Everyone saw it coming from a mile away."  
  
Just because they never talked about the bills doesn't mean the money appeared and the problem went away. They know that. They've had enough practice avoiding these things to see the payments pile up. Just because they don't bring it up doesn't mean it's not there.  
  
They never talked about the obvious cheating. Not even that one time Roger had been so high he hadn't remembered his own name, and Maureen had been there and wild and drunk as hell. Everyone knew she'd been cheating, but it just isn't something Mark liked to discuss. It's something he avoided, ignored, pretended not to see.  
  
Bills never go away. Girlfriends do.  
  
The phone rings. Mark slams the H key down hard enough to jam it. Roger keeps tuning his guitar, looking for notes that aren't there.  
  
"Mark, Mark are you there?"  
  
Stupid to fall in love with a girl, just because she's got a good ass. A cute pout. A brilliant smile. An adorable laugh. Great in bed. A fiery personality. A modern outlook. Stupid to fall in love at all, really. Love is for bad, shallow Hollywood endings. Love is a good plot point for songwriters to throw in when they have nothing else to go on about. Other than that, it's just a waste of time.   
  
"It's your mom. I was just calling to check and see if you remembered what your father said about using our account number."  
  
Mark is writing who knows what. He's cursing himself for getting too attached. He never gets attached, and then he had, and now he knows better. Thinking all this isn't helping to take away the ache in his chest.  
  
It goes without saying that talking about it would only make it worse.  
  
"You know you're cut off, honey."  
  
The next sound is the typewriter hitting the floor. Roger's fingers finally stop twisting at the pegs and running through old high school love songs that mean nothing. He looks over to Mark who is leaning against the couch, lifting his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. On the answering machine, Mrs. Cohen says, "We love you, Mark. Be sure to call" before she hangs up.  
  
At the ending beep, Mark gets up and walks to his room without a single word.  
  
Roger sets down his guitar. He picks up the typewriter, setting it back up. He's pretty sure it's screwed up some how, but he has no idea how to fix it and so just leaves it be. He goes to the answering machine and deletes every saved message on there, just trying to get rid of this last one and the two before. The two from Maureen.  
  
He creeps into Mark's bedroom as quietly as possible, climbing into bed and wrapping his arms around Mark and ignoring the way the smaller boy shakes and trembles.   
  
Roger understands that a broken heart, no matter how expected, can't be healed with a few helpful words.

  
  
*

  
  
There are plenty of other things they don't discuss.  
  
There is a light that goes on in Roger's eyes that makes his whole face glow, no matter how sick he is, and sometimes when Mark sees it he wants. They don't talk about how it happens. One minute Roger is laughing about something one of them said (fun, easy, light banter that doesn't mean a thing) and then Mark takes.  
  
They never mention their weird sleeping habits. How after April and the withdrawal and Mark staying up all night to hold Roger and wipe the sweat away and change the sheets and wake him up when it got too bad. How it just became easier for Mark to stay in his room. Or how after Maureen finally left, Roger just slipped next to Mark and held him and it felt natural. They don't even think about all those times afterwards when their excuses had run dry, and it's just Mark and Roger curled up together. How Mark sleeps better if he has someone to hold in the dark, or how Roger has the habit of nuzzling him until he finds that one particular spot.  
  
They never talk about how Roger's kisses are too slow. How he moves his lips over Mark's neck until the other boy can't stand it. Half whispers, half pleads in the dark don't count. Not when all Mark is saying is, "Please." There is no good time to bring up that Mark's hands are too gentle when they ghost over Roger's chest, almost tugging him closer but too afraid to be aggressive. Roger, "Mark"s and "Yes"es and "I need you"s are so quiet and low that it's hard to think of them as real words. Everything that happens in the dark, muttered and safe and alone-together, they don't worry about that.  
  
Mark doesn't need to ask to figure out that Roger likes having his hair played with. Running a hand through, scratching behind his ears, and Roger turns content and relaxed and on the edge of moaning.  
  
The way Roger can take Mark's fingers when he gets back from filming and rub them between his hardened, calloused-over hands is something you just can't discuss.  
  
The things they're thinking when they're lying there in the dark, tangled together and sharing body heat as freely as they share everything else with one another, it's hard to put in words. There are some that come close, that almost touch on the feelings that brush through Mark like a wave of understanding, or appear to Roger in the form of notes and half-completed melodies. Even if they could get the words to form in their heads, neither boy wants to break the spell by saying them out loud.  
  
This is another one of those things that they let go unsaid.

  
  
*

  
While Angel and Mimi are in the bathroom, getting ready for some party Collins is dragging them to (not so much dragging once the words "Free" and "Alcohol" had been brought up), Mark goes over to sit by Roger. It's been three months since he met Mimi. They're going through a good spell, only troubled by Roger's assertion that he wouldn't go to Life Support no matter how much she begged.  
  
Mark puts his camera down by Roger as the other boy slaves over his guitar. He runs his hand through Roger's hair. Roger rolls his eyes, pulling out from under Mark's touch. Mark picks up his camera again, walking away just in time for Mimi and Angel to reappear from the bathroom.  
  
Mimi looks at Roger and says, "Well?"  
  
Mark and him share a glance, and Roger shrugs his shoulder. "Fine, I'll go."  
  
Mark smiles and starts loading a new reel of film when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He smiles up at Collins, who returns it with a wide grin and laugh. Shaking his head he says, "I don't get you two."  
  
Looking between scrawny little lonely Mark with his camera and work, and Roger with his girlfriend and passion, Collins says, "You two hardly ever talk, but you always get along. How did you manage that?"  
  
Roger kisses Mimi and goes back to playing his guitar, shaking his head at whatever she's saying. Mark, he smiles and shrugs. "Oh," he says. "We figure it out."


End file.
